Sherlock and Molly
by Tolkienite333
Summary: A collection of one-shots that delve into the complicated relationship of the one and only consulting detective and the infatuated pathologist he works with. Rated T just to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

**Sherlock and Molly**

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Sherlock Holmes bent over a Petri dish, carefully studying the wiggling bacteria with his startling blue-green eyes. His calculating vision flicked this way and that over the specimen. It was a summer Friday night, the kind of night most people would be using to go out with friends, not the kind you would spend cooped up in a morgue. But Sherlock Holmes was not most people, and apparently, neither was Molly Hooper.

"Here, let me help you with that," a much-to-eager voice said, close behind Sherlock's ear: in fact, much closer than he had perceived. Startled, Sherlock snapped upright, and Molly Hooper jumped backwards, knocking over a microscope. The microscope hit a case of glass slides, sending them flying off the counter and crashing to the ground. They shattered upon impact, sending large glass shards everywhere. Sherlock dropped his head with a sharp intake of breath and closed his eyes, clearly trying not to say anything harsh.

"Oh no! I'm so sorry Sherlock! I just wanted to - I was just trying to - " Molly's chirpy voice faltered under Sherlock's glare. "Just – clean it up," he said shortly. Molly flushed and mumbled apologies as she went off to fetch a broom. She grabbed it and shook her head.

"Why do I always, always mess it up?" Molly groaned, knocking her head on the handle. _Every time! Every damn time! Can you just, for once, not be an idiot?! _Molly thought bitterly. She walked back over to Sherlock, broom in hand. She rounded the corner just in time to see his face creased with pain, and his leg held slightly above the ground. She gasped, causing Sherlock to twist around. He saw Molly standing there gaping and quickly put his leg down.

"You're hurt! Oh, God, I - "

"I'm fine!" Sherlock interrupted loudly, turning sharply towards her: a bit of a mistake. He winced as he applied pressure to his clearly injured leg.

"Sherlock Holmes, don't you dare lie to me! You sit down this instant!" Molly yelled. Sherlock looked at her, one eyebrow raised slightly in surprise. "I may not be a consulting detective, but I am a doctor, and I know when someone is injured!" she cried.

The corner of Sherlock's lips twitched up. "Technically, you're a pathologist," he said, stepping towards her. Instantly, his knee buckled and he fell to the ground in a crouch.

"That's it. You sit down right now and let me help!" Molly said.

"Oh, that's a marvelous idea, considering the last time you 'helped' worked out so beautifully," Sherlock said as he struggled up. Molly flushed deeply and took a step back.

"Sorry." Sherlock said quickly. He leaned heavily on the counter. Molly nodded her head, trying to say something – anything – but she couldn't. She fumbled around and finally managed to find and drag a chair over to Sherlock, and he dropped onto it with a sigh. Molly knelt down, took off his shoe, and rolled up his pants leg. She breathed in sharply as she looked at the five glass shards embedded deeply in his ankle. Blood trickled down from the puncture wounds.

"Right then, let's, uh, fix you up," Molly said nervously. She had never been this close to Sherlock before: it was wonderfully terrifying. Her fingers hovered over the glass. She took hold of the first shard with a pair of tweezers and yanked it out. Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth and threw his head back.

"Sorry! This is going to hurt a lot, I'm afraid," Molly said. She was in nearly as much pain as Sherlock: she couldn't stand seeing him like this.

"All right, that's alright, just hurry up with it," Sherlock said, breathing heavily. Molly nodded vigorously. She pulled out the second shard, causing Sherlock to yell and grip the arms of the chair until his knuckles were bright white. Molly began to do what she did best (or worst, considering your perspective) in times of crisis: talk.

"I recently had a man here, I think his name was Davies, yes that was it, Joseph Davies. He had died from seven glass shards that pierced his trachea. Quite a gruesome sight. Never really knew how it had happened, never really cared to ask, but –"

"Molly, shut up." Sherlock interrupted. Molly nodded, embarrassed. The third shard was removed, then the fourth. Sherlock slammed his hand down on the chair and quite literally roared. Molly jumped, startled. Sherlock stared at her, his look clearly saying _ 'finish this bloody thing before I rip it out myself, and we both know that's not going to be pretty'._ Molly pulled out the final shard.

"There! They're all out now! But I think I'm going to have to put sutures in them, if you don't mind: they're pretty deep." Molly said.

"Do whatever, so long as I can get back to my case soon. It's a good one." Sherlock said in reply. His hair was damp, and beads of sweat trickled down his neck. Molly bit her lip. _He's so attractive_, she thought. Sherlock began to laugh, and Molly quickly realized she had spoken out loud.

"Oh God, no, I didn't, I mean, I did, but I didn't mean to –" Molly fumbled, her face cherry red. "No, it's, um, it's okay." Sherlock said, a moderately amused smirk on his face. Molly sighed and smacked herself on the forehead, causing Sherlock to laugh even more. Molly glared at him.

"You ought to be careful, laughing at me like that. After all, I am the one about to sew up your ankle." Molly said, her face still red. Sherlock nodded, the smirk still lingering on his face, and braced himself. Molly took the needle and thread and quickly sewed up all the wounds, much to Sherlock's great pain. She leaned back to admire her handiwork. _Not the best, but it'll do, I guess_, Molly thought.

"You're all good, Sherlock. But don't do anything stupid, and stay off that leg. It needs rest to fully heal. Here, let me fetch you a crutch." Sherlock nodded and ran his hand through his dampened hair. His purple shirt was stained with sweat, and it clung to his lean, muscled frame. Molly stood, trying not to stare, and turned to go find something that could serve as a crutch for him. Suddenly, she felt a hand grasp her arm. She turned to see Sherlock's icy blue-green eyes locked on her warm brown ones. He pulled her down towards him and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper," he murmured in her ear. Then he released her from his grip. She stumbled back in shock. She felt like dancing. As Molly turned away to finally go fetch that makeshift crutch and sweep up the remaining glass, she had to bite her lip to keep the ridiculously happy smile from showing on her face. Behind her, still in his chair, where Molly couldn't see, Sherlock was doing the same.

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**Hey readers! How did you like it? I tried very hard to keep to the personalities I have come to know and love from _Sherlock. _I realize that since Sherlock is a sociopath (and a high-functioning one at that), he couldn't really have much of an emotional response to Molly, but I just had to throw Molly (and myself) a bone there at the end. Did I do too much "Sherlock-in-pain"? Please review! This was my first story ever, and I plan to add more Sherlolly one-shots to this, but I haven't any more ideas yet. It may be a while before I add any more, because of my lack of creativity and the fact that I am still fumbling through this website. Any prompts? ****I absolutely adore this show, and I gave this work my best shot. I hope I made all you fellow Sherlockians/Holmies and Sherlolly shippers proud!**

**Please read and review! Everything is helpful!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Story No. 2**

Sherlock Holmes sat, still as a statue, in his chair at Baker Street. His hands were set in their "thinking position" and his eyes stared straight ahead. Some would say the look was blank, but then again, some did not know Sherlock Holmes. There was always something going on in his mind. Today, the "something" happened to be the one and only Molly Hooper. She had seemed different today at St. Bart's.

Sherlock's mind flicked back and forth over the details he had acquired from his observation of the pathologist. Slight stooped posture, possibly indicating physical pain, but physical pain came with sweat more often than not: Molly's skin was free of the shine that accompanies perspiration. Slight redness and puffiness around her eyes could mean crying or lack of sleep, or possibly both. The slight discoloration of her lab coat around the collar definitely led towards tears. Her fingers constantly fiddled with the edge of her lab coat, which could indicate, what? Fear? What could Molly possibly need to fear? Distraction? That seemed more likely. What could she need distraction from? Sherlock was, for once, at a loss.

It took Sherlock a while to realize that John Watson, his flat mate, was waving his hand in front of his face. Sherlock blinked and stared up at his best friend.

"What the hell could you possibly be thinking about? I've been waving my hand in front of your face and screaming your name for five minutes now, Sherlock! Five minutes!" John shouted angrily. "We don't even have a bloody case!" He threw up his hands in exasperation at Sherlock's lack of reply. "Fine! Have it your own way!" He flopped down into his chair, frustrated. A few moments of tense silence passed. Sherlock finally looked over at John.

"Molly. Has she seemed, oh, I don't know, in a state of depression and emotional instability to you?" Sherlock said, tilting his head slightly. John looked up with mock surprise.

"Oh, so now you acknowledge my existence. Thank you, it's nice to have people realize YOU"RE ACTUALLY ALIVE once in a while!" Sherlock leaned back in his chair, ignoring the snarky comment. John sighed.

"Didn't she tell you? Her cat died. Had him for 14 years. She was real close to it." John said. "I thought she'd actually been doing very well with it." _Oh, that's it! Emotional pain! Why hadn't I thought of that? _Sherlock stood up and scoffed.

"She's clearly a wreck over it. God, it's amazing what you don't see. Honestly, I expected it to be something worse, from her state, like, say, the abduction of a family member," he said arrogantly. He walked over and examined the skull on his shelf, while John stared at him, then shook his head, brushing off his friend's rude comment.

"You should go see her," John said. Sherlock twisted around and looked at John, his eyebrows raised with surprise. "Me? Why should I go?" he said.

"You're nearly her best friend, Sherlock, and you obviously mean a lot to her!" John stared at Sherlock's uncomprehending face. "You know, for someone who sees everything, sometimes you miss the most important details." John leaned over and opened up the day's newspaper. Sherlock stood still for a moment, and then jumped up to fetch his coat and scarf. As he stood holding the door open, he turned suddenly towards John, who was still engrossed in the paper.

"How did you know her cat died?" he asked. John looked up from his reading. "Because I _talked_ to her, Sherlock. You should try it sometime. You might just find you like it." Sherlock laughed.

"Sounds exhausting," Sherlock said with a smirk, "and incredibly boring." Then he sprung out the door. John rolled his eyes and went back to his paper.

DING, DONG! Sherlock stood, tapping his foot with impatience at Molly Hooper's address. He heard shuffling behind the closed door, and then a slight shriek of panic, and then hurried footsteps. He assumed she had looked through her peephole and seen it was he. Sherlock half-smiled to himself. There was groan of protest as the door hinges were forced open, and suddenly Sherlock was looking down at a very distraught Molly Hooper. She clearly had tried to brush her hair before she opened the door, and then given up, because half of her head was smooth, while the other still frizzy. Her eyes were red and glassy again, indicating more crying.

"What do you need?" Molly said, her normally chirpy voice croaky.

"Nothing, actually, I came to see you." Sherlock said. "John told you, didn't he," Molly said as she turned to walk back into her home. Taking this as an invitation to come in, Sherlock followed her inside. Her house was exactly as he'd thought it would be: a cluttered mess, but not dirty. _Organized chaos, _Sherlock thought to himself. No wonder she had fallen for Moriarty.

"Uh, yes, he did. My condolences." Sherlock said. He sat himself down on her couch. It was rank with the smell of Molly's deceased cat. He quickly began to mouth-breathe: the smell of cats always bothered him.

"Thank you," Molly said sniffling. "Coffee?"

"No, I'm fine." Molly nodded and sat down in a big fluffy armchair next to Sherlock. A few moments of awkward silence passed. Sherlock was about to ask where the bathroom was when suddenly Molly let out a ferocious wail and began sobbing. Sherlock turned and stared at her, his face contorted with shock. He sat there, totally bewildered, as Molly bawled her heart out. Sherlock awkwardly reached out and patted her shoulder.

"Uh, there there, Molly," Sherlock said. He was at a complete loss. Molly slowly managed to calm herself down to the occasional sob. When she was finally able to speak coherently again, she apologized fervently to Sherlock.

"God, I'm so sorry, I just, it's just," Molly breathed in sharply. "Whiskers was my closest and only friend for years, and, and, and, now, he's, he's gone!" Molly began to cry again.

"I'm very sorry, Molly. I know what it's like –" Sherlock began. Molly interrupted him, tears still streaming down her face.

"No! No you don't! Don't even try! You, you're a sociopath! You don't feel!" Sherlock stood up and began to pace as Molly went on with her lecture. He was growing irritated and frustrated with her spiel on his lack of emotion. He writhed under her words: he knew that at one point, they were false. He wasn't always a sociopath. One thought began to repeat over and over in his mind, each time with increasing intensity, until it felt like his mind was practically screaming it. Sherlock pressed his hands against his head, crouched down, then sprung back up, and bellowed "REDBEARD!"

Molly abruptly stopped talking and stared at Sherlock, her tears stifled by her surprise. "Wha-what?" Sherlock flopped down onto the couch again, running his hand through his hair.

"Redbeard. My – my old dog." he said, his voice much softer. His eyes began to develop a glassy sheen. Sherlock choked on his words: he wasn't accustomed to the wave of repressed emotions overtaking him. He swallowed down the knot in his throat. "When I was young, Redbeard was my best friend. My only friend. He – he was so smart. He could do anything. He was the first thing I ever felt appreciated me, and, and didn't hate me." Sherlock stopped. This was the first time he had ever expressed how much Redbeard had meant to him, how he had changed him forever.

"Go on." Molly said softly. She laid a hand on Sherlock's arm.

"He – we were playing fetch. I threw the ball as hard as I could. I loved watching him run: he was faster than a bullet. The ball bounced off a fence and rolled into the street. Redbeard ran after it before I could - before I could stop him," Sherlock blinked rapidly. Molly's eyes reflected his sadness in her growing tears. "A truck slammed into him. He broke a rib, his two front legs, shattered the back two, and fractured his jaw. I watched it happen. Every single detail, burned into my memory. He was still alive afterwards. We had to - we had to put him down." Sherlock breathed in deeply, trying to compose himself. "I decided that day I never wanted to feel like that again. I never wanted to feel anything ever again."

"Oh, Sherlock," Molly said. She was crying again, but these were soft, noiseless tears. She went and sat down next to Sherlock, who was reliving that day in his mind. He shuddered. Molly leaned over and rested on him, her head nestled on his shoulder. They sat like that for hours, neither moving, each treasuring the comfort the other offered. The sun soon set, and Sherlock returned to Baker Street, both he and Molly feeling considerably lighter.

The next morning, Molly Hooper was awakened by the sound of her doorbell. She sat up and rubbed the sleep out of her weary eyes, recalling the night before. It was the most emotion she had ever seen out of Sherlock before, and it was incredibly unnerving, but not unwelcome. She staggered to her feet, still half asleep, and opened the door. No one was there. She looked back and forth, and was about to shut the door when she heard a gentle purr from beneath her. Molly looked down to see a tiny brown kitten with big blue eyes staring up at her from a small wooden box. Around its neck was a strip of navy blue cloth, tied like a scarf, and a note. She bent down and picked up the kitten, it squirming in her arms and meowing affectionately. She opened the note. It read:

_Hope she helps. Thank you. For everything._

_-SH_

And once again, Molly Hooper cried.

**Hey readers! How'd I do? I really wanted to crank out another chapter because I absolutely adore Sherlolly hurt/comfort. I was contemplating storylines when I thought, hey, why couldn't Molly have a cat? and then, in the spirit of Moffat, I killed it off. This turned out a lot longer than it was originally supposed to be, because I hadn't planned on adding Redbeard. I was just going to write it as Sherlock comforts Molly and gives her the cat, but as I was writing it, I was just kind of like OH MY GOD REDBEARD so boom! here he is. Did I do a good job with John? Sherlock? Molly? Were they too dramatic? I've never had a pet before, so I was just kind of guestimating about how much sadness would accompany a death of a pet. **

**Thanks to all those who reviewed last chapter! Reviews are so helpful! If you're a person out there who's reading but not reviewing: REVIEW PLEASE REVIEW I NEED YOU SO MUCH!**

**Any prompts? Please PM me! Open to anything, but no promises!**

**See you later!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Story No. 3**

**Hey all! Little forward note here: thanks to emedealer, Guest, ****The-Scorpio-Holmes-Sister-221B**, **and olechkin1**** for reviewing! It's very helpful and encouraging. Also, I was not aware that Molly actually **_**did**_** have a cat, Toby, so I apologize. If I can figure out how to edit the chapters, I'll be sure to change that last one (but Toby still dies. Sorry Molly!)**

**Anyways, the prompt for this chapter came from user sfk123. Thank you so much!**

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**MANY YEARS EARLIER**

It was the spring of Sherlock Holmes' fifth-grade year. The school cycle was almost over, and the seeds of summer dreams were all sprouting in the children's minds. Everyone was excited and wound up for the year to be over. All except Sherlock Holmes. Summer was just like spring, which was just like winter, which was just like fall. There was no variation to him: he was always bored. School curriculum was never challenging, and breaks were just as uninteresting. Today was no exception.

It was the last class period before dismissal on Friday, art, the class Sherlock detested most of all. Art was meaningless to him, the teacher was old and deaf and didn't know what went on in her class the majority of the time, and all his classmates took advantage of it. They threw supplies around the room, screamed as loud as possible, and engaged in other typical, inappropriate, childish behavior. Sherlock loathed them all. He sat in the corner of the classroom by himself, observing (and judging) everything that went on. He watched as one boy opened a jar of paint and threw it onto a girl next to him. A blonde girl with a bossy attitude stood yelling at another girl: something about "Jimmy is mine" and to "back off". He rolled his eyes. They were all so immature.

Sherlock turned to see a small brunette with wide brown eyes hiding under a table. Three boys, the class bullies, surrounded it, trying to get her out from underneath it. He watched as one managed to grab the girl's ankle and drag her out. They shoved her against a wall, hit her, and then stuffed her in the supply closet and locked it. There was a pounding on the door, and it was evident that the girl had begun to cry. The three boys laughed and walked off, leaving the poor girl banging on the door for help.

Sherlock was appalled. The girl had done nothing to provoke them, yet they beat her and locked her up. He looked over at his teacher, certain she would surely do something about _this_, only to find her sound asleep in her chair. Sherlock groaned. Slowly, he stood and walked over to the three bullies who were still laughing at their handiwork.

"Excuse me." Sherlock said. One of the boys, clearly the ringleader, turned around and glared at Sherlock.

"What do you want, weirdo?" he said stupidly. The boy's accomplices high-fived him for administering such a 'cutting insult'. Sherlock sighed.

"I would like to know what that girl did to deserve such harsh retribution. If you don't mind." Sherlock stared into the leader's dull eyes and tapped his foot, waiting for a reply. His ears registered that the volume of the room had decreased drastically, except for a hopeless pounding on a closet door: everyone was watching what was transpiring with bated breath.

"Molly? Well, she's Molly. What other reason do I need?" he said with a cruel smile. "Now get lost, weirdo, before you get the same treatment." The three boys jeered at him, then turned their backs on Sherlock. A collective "ooh" went up from the crowd. Sherlock bared his teeth, stepped up and tapped the leader on the shoulder. The boy turned around angrily.

"I thought I was pretty clear –" was as far as he got before Sherlock punched him square in the face. He managed to land a few more punches before the three boys overpowered him. He was beaten, lifted up, and then literally thrown in the same closet as the girl. He heard the door slam shut again and the lock click from his sprawled position on the floor.

Sherlock sat up, bruised and angry in the dark of the closet. A small voice came from the corner of the blackness.

"They got you too, didn't they." The voice wavered with lingering pain.

"So it would seem." Sherlock said in reply. He got to his feet slowly, his battered joints groaning in protest. He kicked the door and jiggled the handle, trying to escape. Laughter roared from the other side of the door, then faded as the three boys walked away.

"Don't bother, I already tried. It's good and locked," the girl said. Sherlock sighed and slumped down against the wall, his back aching. He heard the girl slide over to sit next to him, and he felt her clothes graze his arm.

"I'm Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." he said, attempting to break the awkward silence.

"I know. We've been in the same class since first grade. You sat next to me all last year." The girl said in reply.

"Oh." He thought for a moment. "Molly Harper, right?" The girl sighed.

"Hooper, actually." Sherlock nodded. He shut his eyes and tried to envision a plan of escape. Multiple ideas came to mind, but none seemed like they would work. He dropped his head in frustration. They sat still in the darkness for what seemed like an eternity, until Molly spoke again.

"I'm scared." she said, her voice small and timid. Sherlock turned towards her.

"Those idiots can't hurt you when you're locked up in this closet, what's to be afraid of?" he said. "Honestly, we're probably safer in here. Unless, of course, we can't get out, and we begin to suffer from dehydration and starvation. Then the fatigue and desperation will set in, and soon enough we'll probably end up eating –"

"The dark!" Molly interrupted ashamedly. "The-the dark. I'm afraid of the dark." Sherlock looked at her huddled form incredulously.

"You're afraid of the dark? That's ridiculous! Aren't you a little old to be scared of such a childish thing?" Sherlock said, his tone loaded with sarcasm.

"Yes! No! I don't know! It's just…scary!" Molly replied, humiliated at Sherlock's reply. More silence permeated the airspace. Suddenly, Sherlock readjusted himself so he was sitting directly in front of Molly's embarrassed form. Her head hang low, barely distinguishable in the lighting.

"Listen," Sherlock said, lifting her chin so that she faced him. Her eyes caught the small amount of light that flooded from under the door, and they shined with barely withheld tears. "The dark is a literal lack of light. The only thing it does is make things harder to see. It can't hurt you. Sure, it's a bit disorienting, but that's all it is. It won't hurt you."

Molly nodded and wiped her eyes. "Ok. Ok." They sat together in silence for a long time, listening to the racket of their class drone on. No one had seemed to remember or care that there were two young people locked in a supply closet. Molly looked at Sherlock, boredom setting in, and tried to make conversation.

"Got any siblings?" Molly asked. "A brother, but he doesn't count." Sherlock said in reply.

"Pets?" Sherlock stiffened. "No. Never."

"Um, what about –" she began. Sherlock stood up, interrupting her. "Shut up. I'm tired of this. Let's break out of here." Molly smiled and bit her lip. _I like him. He's weird,_ she thought. Sherlock rummaged around through the mess of art supplies until he found a pack of paintbrushes. It was time to test the one idea he'd had that could work. He paused, his ear pressed against the door. The absence of noise told him that the class was over, and everyone had been dismissed: the coast was clear. He fumbled around until he managed to grab the skinniest paintbrush. He stuck the handle into the lock, trying to pick it open, but failing. He tried three more times before he threw it to the ground in frustration. Molly bent down and picked it up.

"Here, let me try." Molly stuck the brush into the lock and picked it with ease. The door swung open noiselessly. Sherlock stood gaping at Molly.

"What?" she said with fake innocence. "I know a few tricks." She grinned at Sherlock, who still looked at Molly with a bit of amazement streaked across his face. The two walked out into the empty art classroom, taking in the mess of paint and supplies strewn across the room. Molly laughed at the sight of their art teacher, still fast asleep in her chair. Sherlock looked over at Molly, trying to read her. _She's nice, and pretty. Wait, what?_ He shook his head. That was something he'd deal with later.

"Well. It's been fun, Molly Hooper. I guess." Sherlock extended his arm for a handshake. Molly looked at his hand, then up at Sherlock. She leaned forward on her toes and kissed Sherlock on the cheek.

"I heard you sticking up for me. Nobody's ever done that before. Thank you." Her face colored as she saw Sherlock's eyes widen as big as saucers, and she smiled embarrassedly. "Well, I'll be off. My mom will be looking for me." Sherlock nodded vigorously, his curly hair bouncing.

"Yeah, uh, yes, well, you're welcome, and, I'll, uh, see you round." Sherlock said, still disconcerted by Molly's kiss. He watched her as she walked out of the room, rubbing her battered shoulder. He sat down on the floor, thinking about the strange girl he just met. He didn't know then that she would grow to be one of the most important people in his life, one he couldn't live without. He didn't know how much he would need her, how much he would love her. But that was ok. Even though he had quite literally taken a beating for it, the one thing Sherlock Holmes did know was that he had made a friend.

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**How'd I do? I was really excited to write more, so I think I might've rushed it a bit. Was it ok? Please send me more prompts! I love them! Thanks for reading, and as always,**

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Story No. 4**

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Molly Hooper lay stretched out on her couch, watching her favorite television show, _Doctor Who_. It was late Saturday night, and she was enjoying her free time with some ice cream and relaxation. She didn't get much time off, so when she did, she took advantage of it. She snuggled up under her gigantic quilt with her small brown cat, watching the Doctor save humanity with sleepy eyes. Molly had just begun to doze off when her cell phone buzzed. Her eyes snapped open. She fumbled around for her phone and knocked her ice cream onto the floor in her attempt to reach it. She sighed as she watched it melt into her carpet. Finally taking her phone, Molly stared angrily at the message that ruined her night:

_EMERGENCY._

_BAKER STREET._

_NOW._

_-SH_

Molly stood up and reluctantly turned off her show. She looked around for anything she might need and decided on her quilt and her phone. She walked out into the night bundled up in her quilt, caught a cab, and set off to see what emergency the great Sherlock Holmes could possibly need her help to handle.

Molly entered Baker Street, wrapped in her quilt. She heard very loud crying and shouting coming from the kitchen. "Sherlock?" she said timidly. There was a rush of footsteps and suddenly a very frazzled Sherlock appeared in front of her. He grabbed her shoulders and violently shook her.

"MAKE IT STOP! OH GOD, PLEASE, MAKE IT STOP!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. His eyes were wide, and his hair was a mess of curls. The crying from the kitchen intensified, and Sherlock whimpered and fell to the floor. Molly stood still, completely shocked, as she watched Sherlock curl into the fetal position and cover his ears, moaning. _What on Earth could drive a psychopath mad? _Molly thought, beginning to get quite scared. Slowly, she walked into the kitchen to see Ella Watson, John and Mary's six-month-old baby girl sitting in her high chair and wailing as loud as she could. Molly stared and the little girl with disbelief, then began to laugh hysterically. She laughed even harder when she saw Sherlock grab a pillow and begin screaming into it. Still laughing, she walked over and picked up Ella, gently rocking her until she quieted down a bit. Then she sat her in Sherlock's chair, giggling madly. Sherlock slowly looked up from his pillow.

"You - you are - you are a godsend." Sherlock said, wiping his eyes. He was in his pajamas and striped blue robe. Molly blushed.

"Well, um, uh, thank you, I, um, I try." She pulled her quilt up onto her shoulders. Sherlock stood up.

"Mary and John went on a 'date'. Don't know why, they're already married and everything, but whatever. Needed a babysitter. I thought – I thought it would be easy. Evidently not." Sherlock rubbed his head and sat down on the couch. "It didn't shut up for two hours." Molly turned and looked at Ella's sweet innocent face. Suddenly, her features twisted and she began to cry again.

"NO! Not again! I can't handle this anymore!" Sherlock howled. He repeatedly banged his head on the couch's armrest.

"Have you fed her yet?" Molly shouted over the crying. Sherlock shook his head. "What are you thinking?! She needs to eat, that's why she's crying!" Molly cried in disbelief.

"I thought they would've already fed it, like good parents!" Sherlock shouted back. Molly rolled her eyes. Quickly she rushed into the kitchen and grabbed a jar of applesauce from the bag Mary had left. She walked over to Ella and began to feed her the applesauce. The poor girl devoured the entire jar, and the wailing ceased. Molly smiled and turned towards Sherlock. He stared at her, amazement and gratitude written across his face. He opened his mouth, possibly about to say thank you, but instead out came: "Why are you wearing a quilt?" Molly sighed, adjusting it around her.

"I was in the middle of a _Doctor Who_! _Doctor Who,_ Sherlock! But you had to interrupt me." she complained. Sherlock nodded apologetically. He knew from all the times she talked about it (and all the times he barely listened) how important that show was to her. They stood in silence for a moment, then both turned to look at Ella, who was dozing peacefully in the chair.

"Ella's so beautiful," Molly said blissfully. "I want to have a baby just like her someday." Sherlock scoffed and slumped down on the couch.

"Why would you want to have something that only eats, sleeps, poops, and cries? It's an unnecessary and avoidable headache. And if you did, why would you name it something as generic as Ella?" It became clear he was ranting about something else now, and Molly watched him, slightly amused, as he became more and more animated. "Honestly. John and Mary have a daughter named Ella. Could they be any more typical? There are so many different, unique names out there, and the couple with the single most ordinary names picked the next most ordinary name they could find –"

"They were not going to name her Sherlock, get over it!" Molly interrupted, laughing. Sherlock looked up at her, a half-smile on his face. Molly wrapped her quilt tighter around her and sat next to Sherlock. Now that Ella was all settled and it was quiet, Molly was beginning to feel the tendrils of sleep ensnare her. Her eyes drooped closed, and soon enough she was snoring. Sherlock sat still, observing her. They stayed like this until Ella woke and began to cry again. Sherlock groaned and gently got up from the couch, so not to wake Molly. He walked over and picked up Ella.

"What's wrong this time? Are you hungry again? God, I wish you could just tell me." Sherlock said to Ella's crying face. Suddenly, he picked up an extremely strong odor radiating from the little girl. His face scrunched up in disgust. Not knowing what to do, he went to the one person he thought might.

"Molly." Sherlock shook her. "Molly!" She moaned and rolled over. "Molly! The baby has an oddly sulfuric smell leaking from it." Molly shooed him away and grumbled,

"Diaper…change…sleep…now." Sherlock groaned. He looked at Ella. He could figure this out.

Forty-five minutes later, Sherlock flopped down breathless next to Molly's sleeping form on the couch. He had managed to wrestle a new diaper onto Ella and get her to sleep, and had garnered some bruises in the process: that girl could kick. He looked over at Molly. _I could not have… survived this without her, _he thought sleepily. _I love…I love… hmmph. _His eyelids began to droop, and soon enough, he was fast asleep as well.

John and Mary Watson slowly entered Baker Street very late that night (or early that morning, depending on your perspective). They tiptoed up the stairs giggling, their somewhat drunken states inferring that the lack of noise meant Ella was asleep, and they were unwilling to wake her. They entered the sitting room to find Ella bundled up and sleeping in Sherlock's chair: but that wasn't the most interesting sight. What the pair was most astounded to see was the sleeping forms of Sherlock and Molly lying together on the sofa. Molly was curled up under a giant quilt with her head resting on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's arm was wrapped around Molly's waist, and his head was turned so that he faced her.

Mary grinned enormously, and turned towards John to see that he was doing the same. As quietly as they could, they collected Ella and her diaper bag. The two silently walked out of Baker Street and caught a cab home. The lock clicked loudly, and Molly Hooper's eyes fluttered open. As she looked up and saw Sherlock Holmes' sleeping face peering down at her, the only thought she could formulate before she slipped back into her blissful slumber was; _This is so much better than Doctor Who._

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**Hey my fellow Sherlockians/Holmies! How did you like it? I've been sitting on this idea for a while now, and I've been dying to get it done. Did I rush it? I always feel like I've rushed it. I have never seen Doctor Who before, but my best friend absolutely adores the show, so I just picked it. I hope Molly Hooper would like it, too. I thought it was kind of a funny irony too because, you know, Moffat. Anyways, please review! (and thanks to all those who reviewed the previous stories!) I'm fresh out of ideas, so it may be a while before I update. If you can help obliterate my writer's block with some fabulous prompts, please PM me!**

**See ya later!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Story No. 5**

**Forward Note: Thanks to all those who reviewed last update! I apologize for being so late: this past week was really busy. These next coming weeks won't be much better, I'm afraid. I'll update when I can. Thank you for your patience! This chapter is based off a prompt from user Khione'sKid.306. It takes place during that brief and hated period where Janine and Sherlock dated. *****makes disgusted face*******

**Please read and review!**

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Molly Hooper stood examining a corpse one afternoon at St. Bart's. The day was proceeding as usual, except with the added bonus of living company offered by Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't much, and he had barely spoken to her all day, but sometimes it was nice to know there was someone else alive. Also, it made her feel strangely warm inside to know that Sherlock was near to her. She glanced over to see his curly brown head bent over a microscope. Noticing movement, his eyes flicked over at her, and she quickly looked away. Sherlock smiled slightly to himself and looked back down at his microscope. He appreciated her company just as much as she appreciated his, though he'd never tell her so. They went about their business in silence, each silently savoring the other's presence, when a sharp knocking on the door rudely interrupted the peace.

"Sherlock? Sherl, babe, you there?" Sherlock's head snapped up. His eyes widened with panic. He dropped onto the floor and hid behind the counter, his neck craning around to look at the door. "Sherlock?" the voice called, followed by more knocking. Sherlock's head jerked back behind the counter and he looked over desperately at Molly, who watched confusedly.

"I'm not here!" Sherlock hissed up at her. Molly looked at him in disbelief. "Is anyone there? Hello? Sherl?" the voice called again. "I'm not here!" he repeated. Molly sighed and walked over to the door. An oddly familiar woman stood behind it, peering through the small glass window. Molly opened it and observed the pretty black-haired woman who stood trying to look past her into the room.

"Hello. Molly Hooper." Molly said, extending her hand. "Sherlock is, um, very preoccupied at the moment and uh, can't talk now. What do you need?" she asked politely. The woman shook her outstretched hand.

"Janine Hawkins. I was just going to ask Sherl something, if you don't mind. May I come in?" she asked. Molly nodded.

"Of course. I was just working on a body, but if that doesn't -" she began. _Why is this woman here? _

"Oh. On second thought, I'll just stay out here." Janine interrupted. "I'm not good around, um, dead people. Would you mind asking him something for me?"

"Sure, but if you're one of his clients, I think it would be best if you came by later, at his flat." Molly stated, still confused about this woman's desire to speak to Sherlock. She was also growing irritated with her. _You're disrupting my Sherlock time and my work, _Molly became even more confused when Janine began to laugh.

"Oh, no, I'm not a client! I'm his girlfriend!" Janine laughed. Molly's jaw dropped. Nothing could have prepared her for this. She couldn't find words. Red-hot fury and rage surged through her veins, and she looked down at the floor, trying to regain her composure. _What?! Sherlock has a girlfriend?! Sherlock has a friend?! NO! _she thought in anguish. She looked back up at Janine and curtly excused herself. She marched over to Sherlock's hiding spot and dropped down next to him angrily.

"You have a GIRLFRIEND?!" Molly hissed at Sherlock. He looked up at her crouched form blankly.

"Yes. What does said girlfriend want?" he replied unfazed. Molly stared at him. "Why didn't you tell me!" she whispered furiously.

"I didn't think it was necessary! Now go get rid of her! I don't have the patience to deal with her now!" Sherlock replied, irritation creeping into his voice, which was ludicrous to Molly because of all people to be irritated right now, it would be her. She groaned and stood up, walking back over to Janine.

"Is this a bad time? Should I come back? You're probably really busy with your dead people. How do you do that? You have to be a special kind of person to be able to handle being around corpses all day." Janine said. Molly looked at her, dying to scream at her to leave and never come back. Not only was she jealous of Janine, but now she was annoying her as well. The combination resulted in an unpleasant twisting feeling in her chest. She breathed in deeply.

"Why are you here?" Molly asked, her dislike evident in her tone. Janine looked at Molly, her turn to be confused now.

"I was just going to ask Sherl what I need to wear tonight. For our _date_." Janine said, emphasizing the last word. She glanced sideways to see Molly's reaction. She clearly had realized Molly was jealous, and was enjoying rubbing salt in her wound. Molly knew exactly what she was doing, and met her with an icy stare, crossing her arms. Both women felt extremely threatened by the other. "He wasn't answering his phone, and John said he'd probably be here, so, here I am. " she went on, a twinge of annoyance appearing on her face. "Why are _you_ here, with Sherlock? Shouldn't you go somewhere else while he's working? Poor thing, probably can't get anything done with you here bothering him," she said with an air of superiority. Molly glared at her. _Bothering? Oh, I'm not the one bothering people,_ she thought angrily. This woman was making it very difficult to like her.

"I work here, on this floor. I'm the pathologist. What do you do for a living? Escorts?" Molly said, smirking. Janine gasped, fury overtaking her features. On that scathing note, Molly whirled around and walked back to Sherlock, trying to walk straight and tall. She crouched down next to Sherlock's amazed face.

"Good Lord, you ripped her to pieces! That was brilliant! Loved the escort bit. Genius!" Sherlock whispered, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her, an enormous grin spread across his face. Molly brushed him off, still angry and annoyed.

"Yeah. Whatever. What does she need to wear tonight to your bloody 'date'?" Molly replied shortly. Sherlock looked at her, slightly bewildered.

"A dress. Something nice, but not black tie." Sherlock said, still somewhat confused. _Oh, he'll figure it out soon enough. He always does. _Molly nodded brusquely and spun around, going back to Janine. She approached the still fuming woman, and half-smiled over her handiwork. She never knew she could be so devious.

"He says dressy casual. See you later. Or not." Molly said bluntly, then shut the door in Janine's face. Janine stood behind the closed door, gaping at Molly's retreating form through the small window. She whirled on her heel and stormed out, slamming doors as she went. Molly laughed as she listened to the sound of Janine's fury. She felt like a different person, with the envy and anger and hurt coursing through her being. Sherlock rose slowly from behind the counter.

"Well done, I thought she'd be here for a lot longer." Sherlock said, straightening his shirt out. Molly glared at him.

"Why didn't you tell me you had a girlfriend? And why would you pick _her_?" Molly asked, the hurt she felt creeping into her voice. Sherlock groaned.

"It was unnecessary. And unimportant. I didn't see any reason I needed to. And I happen to find, erm, special qualities in Janine that, well, no one else has." Sherlock said awkwardly. Molly ducked her head, now visibly hurt.

"I see." Molly said, close to tears. She turned and walked back to the corpse she had been examining, her eyes filled to the brim with tears. She stood infront of the body and shook slightly with silent sobs. His words had slashed across her with a ferocity she never thought possible. _Why aren't I good enough for him?_ Molly thought, blinking back tears. She tried to focus on her work, but it was impossible through her blurred vision. Suddenly, she felt two strong arms wrap around her waist. Sherlock's forehead pressed against the side of her head.

"I need you, Molly Hooper. More than you'll ever know," he whispered. He wanted to say so much more: to come clean and tell her his whole scheme to get to Magnussen, so as not to hurt her. He wished he could say everything he felt and concealed, but words such as these never came easily to him.

They both stayed perfectly still for a moment, Molly breathing shallowly. She couldn't fathom what was transpiring. Her mind was a whirlwind of lingering jealousy, anger, happiness, shock, bliss, and joy. Slowly, Sherlock released her from his embrace, his lips gently brushing her temple, and walked back over to his microscope. An eternity of silence passed as Molly Hooper stood unmoving in front of her work. Her entire being hummed with ecstasy, yet it was met head-on with all the other feelings she had, feelings of hurt and envy. There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but she couldn't formulate any through the tornado of emotions ravaging through her brain. She turned to Sherlock, who was once again hunched over his microscope. She rubbed her eyes and sniffed away her runny nose. Desperate to say something, Molly said the first thing that came to her mind.

"One question: Sherl? Really?"

Sherlock smiled.

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**So, whaddya think? I really wanted to show a different side to Molly that jealousy evoked in her. Did I do it well? Also, I didn't proofread this one as much as I normally did the others, so if you see anything, I apologize! Please review, please please please please PLEASE! I will love you forever and like you for always if you review! **

**See you later!**


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